


And now, each night I count the stars

by Heavy Henry (HeavyHenry)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Apparently this ship does not exist?, But it’s maglor/halbarad, Elrond has abandonment issues, Feanor's mommy issues, Gandalf Meddles, Halbarad is a chill dude, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Maglor is a grumpy old man, Maglor's daddy issues, Multi, Talking To Dead People, Trans Character, an exercise in self-indulgence, because Maedhros, trying to tell Elladan and Elrohir apart is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:15:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29468559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeavyHenry/pseuds/Heavy%20Henry
Summary: When a stranger arrives at the Prancing Pony, the Dunedain seek to determine whether or not they should accept their would-be ally.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Halbarad, Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë, Gandalf | Mithrandir & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 20
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the purposes of this fic, I'm treating the Silmarillion and the appendices to the trilogy as the authoritative historical texts, although the authorship and unreliability of history is a topic that will recur in this story. 
> 
> Hopefully, this will be evident in the text, but this occurs sometime between the Birthday Party and the forming of the Fellowship. Assume that the Rangers have been keeping an eye on the Shire for a time, and have recently been enlisted to hunt for Gollum, but that Gollum has not yet made his way to Mordor.
> 
> Characters and relationships to be added as the story progresses.
> 
> Despite my lifelong love for Tolkien's stories and the fact that I've been writing my own Middle Earth stories since before I even knew that fanfiction was a thing that one could write, this is the first time that I have shared one of these stories. As such, I am unfamiliar with the tagging protocol in this fandom. Ergo, tags on this fic will likely evolve as I figure that shit out.

While it is true that Barliman Butterbur was not near as foolish as he seemed, it was also true that he was largely ignorant of matters beyond the daily doings of the Breeland. Indeed, with his daily obligations of brewing and baking (or overseeing such activities, as was more often the case), he found that the proprietorship of the Prancing Pony was sufficiently complex to justify his near complete lack of attention to other, possibly greater matters. 

So it was that when a ragged harper arrived on the coldest night the Breeland had seen in an age, Barliman’s foremost consideration was purely pragmatic. Like as not, his songs would draw enough of a crowd to more than compensate Barley for the expense of his board. If any had suggested that something like compassion might have stirred his spirit, he would have suggested that he’d already had more ale than was good for him, before making sure that his mug was full.

The weather was foul indeed on that night. The harper blew in threadbare and bedraggled on a great gust of rain which had the folk in the common room shivering and cursing at him to ‘close the blasted door, quick like!’ He was so swathed in black scarves and hood that nothing could be seen of his face. He resembled nothing so much as an overgrown and wind-rumpled crow, right down to the keen shine of eyes, black as holes in the night, watchful beneath his hood. There was a great mass of folk that night, all eager to be in from the cold road and as near a fire as may be. Those desirable seats closest to the hearth had been claimed already by a few sleepy looking locals, already deep in their mugs. There were a few foreigners, large, rough looking men carrying on a raucous conversation at one of the tables, a group of Little Folk in from the countryside, a small party of Dwarves.. Off in a corner, ever watchful, sat Strider and one of his Rangers. They puffed at their pipes, tracking the men’s argument with evident interest.

Butterbur had never trusted the Rangers. Strider and his friends had begun to appear a few years before and had passed in and out of Bree fairly regularly since then, always just as wild looking as may be. Strangers were a familiar enough sight in Bree, near a great crossroads as they were. There was something about these men that unsettled him, something in the way they watched but kept silent. Barliman didn’t trust a man (Big or Little) who didn’t talk when he was in his cups. He thought to himself that those Rangers must be untrusty folk, or they would not trouble themselves to keep so secret. They paid for their ale the same as any other folk, though, and not only did they not cause trouble, but trouble seemed to mistrust them as much as Barliman did and kept far away from the Rangers. While this didn’t precisely endear them to the Bree-folk, it did earn them an uneasy sort of respect.

One of the foreigners promptly noticed the harp and lost no time in calling for a song. The harper shied a bit from the shouts, but made his limping way through the crowd to a space near the fire which had been hastily vacated by the locals. He shuffled past Barliman, leaning heavily on a staff. The chill of the night clung to his damp cloak and Barliman had to shiver a bit in sympathy. He was very tall, but stooped so that one didn’t immediately notice. When he spoke, his voice was no more than a gruff whisper. Such was its command, however, that Barliman didn’t even have to shush the crowd to hear what he said.

“I will play gladly, but I’ll not sing. This winter has not spared my voice.” He settled himself, making a great show of arranging himself just so, as if his rags were courtly robes.He set the harp to his knee, and tuned it, striking clear notes. He wore gloves that had the fingertips cut from them. Finally, he was satisfied. “This is a tune I made for my father and brothers. It puts me in mind of better days.” If it did, Barliman wished he could have seen such days, for in those not seemed to see a time of true peace, to sleep in a darkness unmarred by the whisper of fear, and to dance in a light of such purity and joy that his heart cried out at its loss. The harper struck chords and pulled melodies from the instrument as simply as breathing. They seemed to form shapes in his hands, as if they could indeed be grasped and unraveled, each into its own tale. 

As the notes faded into the silence, Barley stirred himself and looked about at his crowd, thinking what a lot of fools they all looked; grown men crying over the dying notes of a ragged bard’s song. Even the Rangers were watching the harper with rapt attention and a light in their eyes.

“I’m told the beer here is excellent, Sir Landlord,” whispered the harper, his voice a startling rasp in the silence. Barliman stirred himself with difficulty.

I’m told the same, but I suspect those as say it are just wantin’ a free pint.” The crowd laughed feebly at that, and began again to converse in subdued tones. There were many there who would be awoken in the night by a dream they could neither explain, nor quite recall; a dream of the light of two trees mingling beneath a many-starred sky.

The crowd kept the harper playing late into the night. The storm passed and the moon rode high over the tattered wisps of cloud when he was at last able to leave the common room for the chamber the landlord had set aside for him. The guests of the Prancing Pony were a hospitable bunch and the harper had been eager enough to accept every drink that was offered to him, even when Barliman brought out a fine bottle of sherry that he’d been saving for an unspecified special occasion. His steps may have seemed a bit unsteady in the hall and yet the men waiting in his room did not much surprise him. He had his knife at the throat of one of the men before either of them had the chance to speak. He recognized them from the common room. Two men, clad for the road, who had kept quiet and aloof in the corner of the room. 

The other man lifted his hands slowly. “There’s no need for that.”

“That is a judgement which I shall make for myself,” the harper said. “Why have you come here?” 

The man flickered his eyes to his companion and licked his lips nervously, but did not answer.

“Is this one the leader, then? Should I ask him my questions?” He pressed the knife closer to the man’s jaw and turned his attention back to him. “Well?”

With another glance between them, the man nodded, as well as he could.

“Very well.” He released the man and sheathed his knife. “What would you have of me?”

“I simply wondered where you learned your songs.” He had drawn himself up and he laid his hand on the hilts of his sword, not to draw it but as if he wished to call attention to it. 

“Why should you wonder, child of Isildur? I imagine you have heard many such songs, or perhaps that is simple self-regard.” The harper shook his head. “What is your name, Dunadan?”

“You know me?”

“Nay, or I would not have asked for your name. I only know your line.”

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. In these parts, though, they call me Strider.” He drew himself up. “This is my kinsman Halbarad.” 

The second man inclined his head but did not cease his watch on the harper. “Who are you, Elf-friend?”

The harper laughed softly at this, a mirthless sound muffled by the scarves that he still wore. When he spoke again, his voice was clear. “You do me far too much credit.” He drew himself to his full height and uncovered his face. Halbarad startled, for the harper was one of the high elven kindred. Aragorn merely nodded, as if he had expected this. “Tell me what the Numenoreans seek in the North.”

“We keep watch on the land of the Halflings. If I may be so bold, what is one of the kin of Finwe seeking here?”

“I am only a simple traveler, good sir.”

Halbarad had said nothing, but merely watched as was his nature. But now he broke his silence, “Sir, who are you, and why do you concern yourself when all your kin departs Middle Earth?”

“Evil things are stirring in this land. Not all the Eldar are yet toothless. There are yet those who would seek their vengeance against the Enemy, and hope that by doing so, they may find their own redemption,” he returned harshly. “As for my name, I have nought else to call my own, and I will declare it only in my own time.”

“And would he tell you nothing more of his aims, nor of his people?” Elladan inquired of Aragorn as Halbarad stoked the fire. They were camped at Fornost, that men now call Deadmen’s Dike. Few came to the grass-grown ruins, but the Rangers oft used it as a meeting place. They had started a fire in the remains of a round watchtower and sat here and there upon the tumbled stones. Halbarad pulled a stick from the fire and used the flame to kindle his pipe before brushing off a stone and taking his own seat. 

“Surely there are no longer Elves who serve the Enemy.”

“It is hard to say,” said Elrohir, “There were never many who did so knowingly. But there have been a great number who have done his work. Lies and whispers may sometimes cut more deeply than swords.”

“He said nothing of his people, though he is certainly of the Noldor. Of his aims, nothing but that we share the same enemy.” Aragorn pulled a stray hair from before his eyes and frowned at it. “I find it worrisome that he would not give us his name.”

“Is that so, Strider?” Halbarad asked. 

Aragorn ignored this and looked to the twins across the fire, “There are many reasons that one might wish to hide a name. There are yet more reasons to be careful of those who choose to do so.”

Elladan said, “I cannot say whether he is worthy of trust. Only remember that treachery is ever our enemy’s greatest weapon, and that not all his servants are Orcs. Nevertheless, the enemy of my Enemy is my friend. Perhaps” He glanced at the dark figure that had appeared without sound of approach at the edge of the circle of firelight. Any hint of the limp that he had affected in Bree was long gone. Halbarad leapt to his feet, setting arrow to string as he did so. The harper did not move.

“Well spoken, sir,” he said. “May I?”

“Welcome friend, sit with us.” Elladan replied. The harper moved into the light and took a seat on a stone at the edge of their circle, laying his staff across his knees. Firelight flickered across his swathed form, illuminating only the black eyes glinting about the scarf that muffled his face. He stretched his gloved hands toward the fire.

“The sons of Elrond are as courteous as their father,” he whispered, the eyes glinting back and forth between the twins.

“You speak as one who knows my father,” Elladan commented. 

The shadows shifted as the harper moved his pack from his shoulder, the harp whispering softly within its wrapping. “I did indeed know him well, once.” He pushed back his hood. 

Elrohir sucked in his breath with a hiss. “Who are you?”

Elladan shook his head. “If it were not impossible, I would say that you are of Feanor’s line.”

“Ah, but I suppose that is impossible, as you’ve said,” the harper replied mildly.

“You should not be so quick to mock us,” said Elrohir. “If you are who I believe you to be, your life is forfeit for your crimes against our people.”

“Peace, brother,” said Elladan. “That judgement is not for us to make.” He stood before the harper. “I name you Maglor, child of Feanor, that was lost more than an Age ago. I name you traitor and murderer. You are a thief and a slayer of kin. You shall come with us to Imladris and there you will abide by the judgement of our father.

“I will not go,” said Maglor. 

Elrohir drew his sword. “You must.”

“The Enemy stirs. Will you throw away lives on vengeance while he laughs at our folly? For that is all that you will achieve if you attempt to bring me by force.”

Elrohir laughed at that. “I have heard many stories of the children of Feanor, but I had not heard that they were fools, nor that they were cowards. Are you so afraid of one who was once as a son to you? Are you such a fool that you would compound your sin rather than face your doom?”

“Perhaps you have not heard all the stories, yet.” Maglor sat still and silent for a long moment. “Very well. I will go with you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you solve a problem like a son of Feanor?
> 
> Apparently I've decided that Elrond's hobby is just having councils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... here's more of this thing. Thank you to everyone who decided to check out this poorly tagged and incredibly niche story. I hope you enjoy it.

In the morning they set out for Rivendell. They did not return to the Road immediately, but rather set out eastward, into the wild, planning to pass north of the Weather Hills then return on their eastern side, eventually returning to the road to cross the River Mitheithel at the Last Bridge. The Rangers and the sons of Elrond had an errand in the wild, seeking something that they did not think they would find near the road. In truth, Aragorn had begun to doubt that they would find it in the North at all. This, they did not share with Maglor. 

Indeed, they did not speak much with him at all. He stalked behind them like a shadow and lurked at the fringes of their campfire, wordless but ever watchful. Halbarad was one who was used to silence and solitude, but he was still unsettled by it, oft looking over his shoulder and startling each time that he found himself caught by Maglor’s gaze. 

They were crossing a fenny land, now bleak and barren with winter when Halbarad noticed the tracks. They weren’t recent and they weren’t clear but he thought, and Aragorn agreed, that they could have been the mark of something that wore no shoes, yet walked on wide flat feet. Gandalf had asked them to keep a watch for such a creature, though Halbarad had yet to hear why he sought it. Nevertheless, this discovery was a relief to Halbarad.

Elladan and Elrohir had proceeded along their planned track to Rivendell with Maglor while the men followed the tracks directly southward to see whether anything more clear might be found. As he and Aragorn bent close to the ground to examine a bent stick or to sniff at a pile of scat or a little tumulus of fish bones, he felt more at ease. 

“Do you know why Gandalf is so concerned with this creature?”

Aragorn was bent over, cheek almost to the ground as he laid his fingers gently into depressions in the ground that may have been a track, but may not. Halbarad scanned the horizon and saw nought but a hawk hovering on an updraft. “It concerns his halfling friend. It seems that he met the creature during their travels with the Dwarves. He believes that this creature has something or knows something.”

“He would tell you no more?” The hawk dropped to the ground and Halbarad could hear the cry of a rabbit.

Aragorn looked up. “I know a bit more of the story, but no more of his suspicions.” He stood and brushed a piece of grass from his beard. “This is fruitless. If the creature came this way, it was long ago. I think he has gone east.”

“Back to the mountains, maybe?”

“Perhaps.” He looked to the sky where the sun was the merest hint of brightness behind the thick clouds. “We’ll have snow tonight.”

“Aye. Let us find somewhere that we can be out of the wind.”

In the lee of a small hillock, they built a bivouac of their cloaks and took shelter within. The snow came before they were able to build a fire, so they contented themselves with the nuts and cured meat that they carried with them. Aragorn had a small dram of miruvor remaining. Having nothing else to do, they shared the remaining sips of the liqueur and talked. 

The conversation was mostly of small things, the things that they had seen on their travels, those they had met. Halbarad told a bawdy story that he had heard from the men of Dale. Aragorn sang a song that he had learned during his travels in far Harad. As oft happened, though, their conversation turned to their current concern.

“Where will you go now?”

“For now, I think we should go on to Rivendell. It may be that we will continue east from there, although it will be some months before we can attempt to cross the mountains.”

“Well, I suppose we shall learn what is to be done with Maglor.”

“I suppose. You don’t sound eager to see our new friend again.”

“He is not precisely cheerful company, is he?”

Aragorn laughed at that. “I don’t believe he has spent much time in company of any sort for a great many years.”

“I only think it is a bit queer. If he is who we believe him to be and he has stayed hidden for all this time, then why should he show himself now?” 

“I think I’d say he was found, rather than that he revealed himself.”

“Are you so certain that he didn’t intend it that way? Maybe he found us rather than the other way around. If that’s the case, I think we should ask why.”

Aragorn considered this. “Whatever the truth, I shall be interested to see what he and Elrond have to say to each other.”

“Yes, what was it Elrohir said? ‘Are you so afraid of one who was once as a son to you?’” He folded his arms against the cold and passed the bottle back to Aragorn. “Do you know the story?” Aragorn could usually be relied upon for a tale. 

“Parts of it, at least.” Halbarad settled in his seat, content to listen. He knew much of the story himself but he had never given the attention to the old songs that some did. They were long, and more often than not, Halbarad’s attention would wander. “Feanor, eldest son of Finwe, was a great craftsman. At the dawn of the world, he created three great jewels, the Silmarils, wherein was captured the light of the two trees of Valinor. The stones were stolen by the great Enemy. Feanor and his children swore an oath that they would recover the SIlmarils from any that would seek to keep them, be they kinsman or foe. They pursued him to Middle Earth. Many evils were done along the way, even unto the slaying of kin. One of the stones was eventually taken from him by Beren and Luthien, a tale that you well know. 

“When word reached the sons of Feanor that a Silmaril was in Doriath, they attacked the city, but failed to retake the stone. Elwing, daughter to Dior, fled to the Arvernien where she wedded Earendil and bore to him the sons Elrond and Elros. The sons of Feanor again attacked, killing many of those who had fled there. Elwing cast herself into the sea, leaving her sons behind. Of the sons of Feanor, only Maedhros and Maglor remained. Maglor took the boys Elrond and Elros into his own dwelling. It is said that he loved them as his children and that they grew to love him in return, however unlikely that may be.”

Halbarad made a sound of disbelief. “It is said?”

Aragorn shrugged. “I know not the truth of it, and it is not a question that I wish to ask of the lord of Rivendell.

“The other stones were recovered in the War of Wrath when the great enemy was destroyed and Beleriand was lost beneath the waves. Still bound by their oath, the two remaining sons of Feanor stole the stones. It was the nature of the stones that any unclean hand would be burnt by the stones. When the remaining sons of Feanor laid hands upon the stones, they were burnt and they understood that through their foul deeds, they had relinquished their claim upon the stones and that their oath was doomed to remain unfilled. Maedhros, the eldest son of Feanor, threw himself into a chasm of fire, and the stone was lost with him. Maglor, it is said, cast the Silmaril that he took into the Sea, but his fate was unknown, until now.”

“This tale does not make me feel more trusting. It is as Elladan and Elrohir said: he is a murderer and a traitor.”

“Indeed. Perhaps he has been moved to make recompense for his actions.”

“I hope that you are correct.”

It was full night when the sons of Elrond reached Rivendell. They had spent the recent days scrambling through snow and mud in the wilds and rued the decision to continue through the wild. They found their father in his library where he and the hobbit, Bilbo, were deep in conversation. The hobbit had taken up residence in Rivendell some years ago and seemed well-pleased to spend his retirement translating old tales into the Common Tongue.

“Nay, ‘curse’ is not quite the word. It should be more ambiguous. I think ‘fate’ conveys the sentiment better.”

“Ah, but I’ve already used ‘fate’ in this quatrain, Master Elrond. What about ‘destiny?’ Does that convey enough ambiguity for you?”

Elladan felt Maglor stir behind him. Elrond looked up then, smiling at the sight of his sons. His gladness faded as he took note of the dark figure behind them.

“A moment please, Mr. Baggins.”

“Yes, of course, of course.” Bilbo hastily gathered his papers.

As the old hobbit bustled past them, Maglor spoke up, “Have you considered ‘doom?’”

Bilbo snapped his fingers, “that’s it, exactly! My thanks, sir.” He peered at the newcomer. 

“Bilbo,” Elrond prompted.

“Right. Good night Master Elrond.” Bilbo disappeared down the hall with many a curious glance over his shoulder.

The door was closed and firmly latched before any dared to speak.

“I am glad to see you both well. I see you have brought news from the North?” His eyes strayed to Maglor, still hooded.

“Indeed,” said Elladan. “We met with Aragorn and one of his kindred. They had come upon a harper in the village of Bree and thought that we would wish to meet him.” The fire in the room crackled. “They were not wrong.”

Elrond studied the faces of his sons. “Very well. I suppose that I, too, should meet this mysterious individual.” He stood and gestured at one of the chairs. “Be welcome, guest.”

Through this introduction, Maglor had made no movement. He stepped forward now and drew back his hood with a hand that shook. “Well met, Lord of Imladris,” he said.

At the sight of his face, Elrond blanched. It seemed for a moment that he was unable to speak. “You look well.”

Maglor smiled at that. The expression sat uneasily on his lips. “You should not lie to me. You were never very good at it.”

Elrond laughed at that but the sound was something other than mirthful. “We have much to say to each other, but the hour is late and you all must be weary.”

Elladan moved as if he would speak, but Elrond held up a hand.

“My sons, please show our guest to where he may refresh himself and rest. We have much to discuss and haste will not lead us to wisdom. We shall speak of this on the morrow.” 

Halbarad and Aragorn reached Rivendell with no further delay and with no sign of the creature. Having veered south in their search, they decided to return to the road. The weather had continued foul and the going would be easier than in the fens and woody places. Despite their detour, they reached Rivendell only a day after the rest of their party. It was twilight as they rode into the valley. At long last, the snow was passing and as the sun set, his rays escaped beneath the heavy blanket of clouds to paint the columns of Rivendell with red light and turn the many windows to gold. 

They were greeted by no less illustrious a figure than Bilbo Baggins himself. The old hobbit had recently taken up residence in the house of Elrond and already seemed to regard himself an integral part of the household. He was sitting on one of the porches, with a cup of something steaming near at hand and a brazier near his feet.

“Dunadan! What a delight to see you. Elladan and Elrohir said that you were travelling this way, but we did not expect to see you so early.”

“Ah, we had hoped to meet with a friend, but it seems that we missed our chance.”

Bilbo looked up at him and tapped the side of his nose. “You are a poor liar, Dunadan. Very well, keep your secrets, but introduce me to your friend. I don’t think I’ve met this one yet.”

Aragorn gestured and Halbarad stepped forward. “This is Halbarad son of Halbaron, one of my kinsmen.”

Halbarad bent slightly to offer his hand, but Bilbo surprised him, jumped down from his seat to give him a short but serious bow. “Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo.”

“I am honored,” said Halbarad. 

“What of the others?” asked Aragorn.

“Ah, the twins went straight to their father with your ominous looking friend in tow. It all seemed dreadfully serious. Wherever did you stumble across him?”

“I’m sure you’ll hear enough to content even you, in time.”

“I rather doubt it. They were keeping awfully close about it all.” If Bilbo had been less polite, he would perhaps have grumbled. “But, of course, I am delaying you. I expect Master Elrond will want to know that you have arrived. I could take you to him.” Bilbo’s eyes twinkled with mischief.

“Are you feeling left out of secret councils, Bilbo?” Aragorn chuckled. “I’m certain we can find the way.”

“Oh, very well. They were in his study the last I saw them.”

Halbarad followed close behind Aragorn, almost treading on his heels, lest he become lost in the halls and passages of Rivendell. He had visited the Last Homely House before as a quest, but had rarely spoken to the Lord himself and had certainly never presumed to intrude upon his personal chambers. Halbarad would have been well-contented to have been excluded from the summons. Perhaps he could have spent more time on the porch, and perhaps shared a pipe with the halfling. He had seemed to be a cheerful fellow.

Instead, they were greeted by a host of somber faces. It seemed that the others had already spent many hours in speech. Over the whole room lay a pall of exhaustion and disappointment. Maglor, unhooded and clad in fresh garments, though he still kept his gloves, seemed to be ill-at-ease and Halbarad looked on him with sudden pity. Maglor, though, stared steadfastly through the window, not acknowledging the arrival of the rangers. The sons of Elrond watched their father with grave concern as he greeted Aragorn and Halbarad.

“Men of the West, welcome! Did you find that which you sought?”

Aragorn answered for them. “Not yet, Master Elrond. If it was ever in the North, it is there no more.”

“Please, rest here awhile before you continue your journey,” Elrond paused. “Now to the matter at hand: I know what my heart bids, but I fear that I shall be a poor judge in this matter. Oft love and loyalty are twisted by the Enemy to suit his own designs.” He spoke to Maglor. “Indeed, who should know this better than you and I?”

Maglor made no reply.

Elrond continued, “Therefore, I have summoned the members of my Council to determine what is to be done with Maglor son of Feanor. Whether they will respond, I do not know, but I think that all will find it difficult to travel before spring. Until then, I must rely on my own discernment.

“Maglor, much as my heart is glad to learn that you still live, I cannot forgive the grievous hurt that you have to myself, to my family, to all of our people. It is my decision that you shall not walk free until the council may render their verdict. Neither shall you be detained. You may remain in Rivendell and the lands between the rivers and the mountains. If you wish to leave those lands, you may only do so in the company of the Dunedain or of my sons.

“Aragorn, Halbarad, do you accept this charge, both for yourselves and for the Dunedain?”

“Yes,” they said.

Elrond turned back to Maglor. “Son of Feanor, will you abide by these terms?”

“If I say no?”

“Then you would be kept here, behind locks and under guard, if necessary.”

“Very well, then. I accept these terms.”

“Will you abide by the decision of the Council? Even if they call for your death?”

At long last, he turned from the window. “Eagerly.”

“And if they call for you to return to the West to face the judgement of the Valar?”

At that Maglor blanched and paused. At length, he nodded.

“It is decided. ”

With that, it was settled. Elrond would send messages to the Lady Galadriel in Lothlorien, to Cirdan the Shipwright at the Grey Havens, to Glorfindel, to Saruman, to Radagast, and to Gandalf the Grey. Together, they would take council and decide what was to be done with Maglor, son of Feanor, who was thought to be lost. 

Meanwhile, Halbarad harbored a great and secret hope that he would not be summoned to that meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally no one:
> 
> nobody at all:
> 
> Maglor: DOOM
> 
> I am unhealthily dependent on external validation. Comments are VERY welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting around is awful. Maglor refuses to put up with it.
> 
> featuring: trans head-canons, awful attempts at Breeland dialect, and pipeweed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Halbarad is actually a very difficult name to type right.   
> I also don't know why I've decided that the folk of Bree land all talk like New Englanders in a Lovecraft story. but i've started, and now I have to stick with it. 
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who has taken a chance on this story.
> 
> I continue to be unhealthily dependent on external validation. Comments are immensely appreciated.

After a week of rest, Halbarad prepared to leave Rivendell. Aragorn had set out on the previous day, travelling south to the Gap of Rohan, hoping to continue to search for the creature. Halbarad, for his part, was to travel back west to maintain the watch on the Shire. They each bore messages from Elrond to the other members of the Council. As Halbarad stood on the porch in the cold dawn, checking his pack for the last time before setting forth, he was surprised to see Maglor approaching, bearing a pack and clad for travel.

He had not seen the elf at all since the day of his arrival. He had not been present at meals, had not appeared in the Hall of Fire on a night of songs and tales. Halbarad had a sudden and terrible premonition of what Maglor intended. “Good morrow, sir. Are you departing?” He asked as politely as he was able, making a mighty effort to keep his thought from his voice.

Maglor did not trouble himself to conceal his own displeasure. “I may only leave this place in your company. What choice remains to me? To sit here, idle, while others think to map my destiny? I will go mad. Much though it may pain me, I ask your kind indulgence. Permit me to travel with you.” He stopped himself, as if he had said more than he intended. “Please,” he added, a strain clear in his voice.

Halbarad was none too pleased but he nodded. “Have you spoken to Elrond of this plan?”

“Indeed. You may be surprised, sir Dunadan, but this was not my preferred option. I thought to leave with the son of Arathorn yesterday, but he refused me. Whatever he is seeking, he does not wish for me to be there if he should chance to find it.”

“Truly, his caution is scandalous," said Elrond from the entryway behind him. He addressed Halbarad briefly. “I thank you for this favor, young Halbarad,” before returning his attention to Maglor. “I was disheartened to learn that you wished to leave before we two could have a chance to speak more.”

“I did not wish to intrude,” said Maglor.

“Your consideration is admirable, but my door would have been open to you, as you well know. Ah well. You have not sought the company of your kin in more than an age. Perhaps I should not be surprised that you are unhappy to have found it now.”

Halbarad felt trapped between the two, inconsequential and yet intrusive, like a piece of grit between the teeth. It was Maglor who broke the spell. Turning abruptly he stalked away toward the still-dark west without another word.

Behind him, Elrond sighed. “Good journey to you, Halbarad Dunadan.” He appeared weary, a sight that Halbarad had never thought he should see. “I ask one more favor. Please return with him before March comes to an end.”

“I will make sure of it.”

Elrond inclined his head. “I am in your debt.” 

Halbarad knew not how to respond, so he only nodded and turned to follow Maglor from the valley.

He caught up to Maglor near the crossing of the Bruinen. Truth be told, he had tarried somewhat on the way, none too eager to spend more time with his unwilling companion. Maglor, though, had seated himself on a stone and waited, as still as if he were carved from it.

Halbarad was suddenly angry for reasons he could not name. “I do not understand you,” he said to Maglor, who merely watched him with detached interest. 

“I am not surprised.”

Halbarad ignored this. “You have been shown far more mercy, far more kindness than you have reason to expect.”  
“I expect neither,” he drew himself up defiantly.

Halbarad stared at him. “I had heard that the sons of Feanor were cruel and proud. I wish now that I had believed those tales before I had the misfortune to find myself in your company.”

Maglor seemed amused by that. “It would seem that our feelings are in accord, then. Perhaps we shall get on passably after all.”

Despite his personal distaste, Halbarad was forced to confess that Maglor was a useful companion on a long journey. He was skilled in the woods, he did not talk overmuch (or indeed at all), and showed an altogether unexpected knack for camp cookery. Oftentimes, after the evening meal, he would play his harp gently, almost without thought. He did not sing, and Halbarad asked for no songs. 

It would have been an exaggeration, perhaps, to say that his feelings toward Maglor had warmed, but his companionship no longer set Halbarad’s teeth on edge, and he no longer startled to see Maglor trailing after him like a shadow. They did not speak much, beyond those times when it was necessary.

The messages from Elrond were easily delivered. They found Radagast near Sarn Ford and entrusted to him the summons for Gandalf. For the others, they had met a party of Elves near Woodhall who were making for the Havens where they expected to find Glorfindel as well.

That task discharged, they returned to the familiar, for Halbarad, toil of watching and waiting. Little moved in the wild that winter. They drove off a small band of orcs in the foothills of the Blue Mountains and played escort to a group of Dwarves travelling to Bree. They waylaid a troll in the Ettenmoors and spent a wakeful night in the downs with a pack of wargs stalking just beyond the light of their fire.

They camped in fields, in the shadows of hills, beside rivers. The borders of the Shire were quiet, as the woods and waters slept the winter away. When they had enough of the cold, they would visit an inn, the Green Dragon of Eastfarthing maybe, or the Prancing Pony, and Maglor would play for their lodging. Halbarad wondered that his companion did not attract more notice, for to his eyes, the scent of ages past clung heavily about Maglor, but the folks of the villages paid him no more mind than they would any other wandering bard.

On one night they had made their camp beneath an old oak who spread his branches wide in the center of a fallow field. As on many nights, Maglor plucked aimlessly at his instrument while Halbarad sat at ease listening to the fragments of song while he watched the stars. He pulled out his little pouch of weed and began to fill his pipe. He was just striking light to the leaf when he felt Maglor’s gaze upon him. He puffed vigorously until it caught then sat back with an exaggerated sigh of contentment. With a sideways glance at the elf, he exhaled a series of smoke rings, watching them dissipate into the night. Maglor watched this whole operation with great interest. 

“Why do you smoke?”

“Why? Well, I believe I learned it from Mithrandir, for the Halflings began it. It becomes a habit after a time, though I’ve always been fond of the smell,” Halbarad replied. “Have you never smoked?”

Maglor shook his head, and Halbarad in turn began to search his bag for his spare pipe. He filled it, tamped it and offered it to Maglor. Maglor considered for a moment and rose, stepping across the fire to take a seat next to the Ranger. He took the pipe and held it awkwardly, accepting the brand that Halbarad passed him.

Halbarad watched as Maglor attempted to kindle his pipe. 

“Like this?” he asked, puffing exaggeratedly. 

“That’s it.”

Maglor sat back and inhaled deeply, then coughed. Halbarad laughed, earning himself an indignant look from the elf, its puissance somewhat hampered as he gasped for breath.

“No, I’m sorry.” Halbarad said, “Don’t breathe it all the way in, just hold the smoke in your mouth.”

Maglor puffed experimentally, then blew out a mouthful of smoke, watching it ascend.

“Yes, like that.” He watched Maglor for a moment. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen an elf smoke before.”

Maglor stood and offered the pipe back to Halbarad. 

“You keep it.”

Maglor nodded and returned to the other side of the fire where he took up his harp and began to play in earnest. The melody was familiar to Halbarad: one that he had heard often in Rivendell, a lament of Valinor. He knew that he would have no more speech with his companion that night.

The winter wore on in this fashion. The end of February brought with it the first hint of spring. The rivers swelled with melting snow and the roads became a mire. Though it was warmer, travelling became wetter. March arrived, and with it the very first signs of returning vigor. Waterfowl stirred in the skies and the bravest of the trees began to sport the smallest unopened buds at the tips of their branches. 

After a day of rain that had left the travelers miserable and sodden, they came upon a farmer, his wagon bogged down in the thick mud of the road.

“Ho, sirs!” he called as they passed. “I don’t suppose ye’re headed for Archet?”

They had no destination planned beyond the vague intention to pass through the Chetwood and perhaps avoid the worst of the mud. “We could be, friend,” replied Halbarad, already taking off his pack. “Where’ve we gone wrong, here?”

“Ach, well, the wain’s stuck in the mud, as you see. As if that weren’t trouble enow for a lifetime, old Daffydil’s gone lame,” he gestured to the old draft horse who was champing and stomping in the mud.

Maglor set his pack aside and walked to the horse.

“Careful, lad, she’s a biter,” called the farmer.

Maglor paid no heed and took hold of her bridle. He leaned close, stroking her nose, and she calmed, nosing at his garments as if hoping for a treat. With that, they had her out of harness and out of the way quickly. At another word from Maglor, she stood quietly in the grass at the side of the road while they put their shoulders to the wagon.

“Nice trick, that,” the farmer commented. “Alright, let’s see what we can do with this mess.”

Halbarad and Maglor thought that they had already crossed the threshold of how muddy one could get, but they learned their mistake quickly. Maglor spent a good part of the next hour crawling beneath the wagon to wedge rocks beneath the wheels while Halbarad and the farmer pushed and rocked at the load until it was free. While the farmer checked over his wagon and cargo, Maglor went back to the horse. Halbarad observed as he crooned soft encouraging sounds at the old mare while he checked her over, finding that she was favoring one of her front hooves. He used his fingers to clear the mud from the hoof. “She’s thrown a shoe. All will be well after a trip to the farrier.” 

“Ah, there’s another stroke of bad luck, then. Old Wymond did not last out the winter. I’ll have to see if I can get someone out of Bree.”

Maglor finished prying out a loose nail with his dagger. “Is the forge well kept?” He pulled scarf from his neck and wrapped it around the hoof.

“Aye, he’s not been gone long, why?”

“I have some small skill as a smith. Enough for this, at least.” Maglor stood and wiped his gloved hands on his pants as if they were any cleaner, then patted Daffodil’s flank. 

“Truly?” The farmer said. Halbarad shared his incredulity at the offer, though not at the skill. This would perhaps be the best shod horse in all the world. “That would be a help, indeed. I don’t suppose ye could see your way to staying on for a bit? I know there’s a bit of repair work that needs doing before the spring planting. We can’t pay much, mind, but I’ll give ye both a place to wash up and to sleep.”

The farmer and Maglor turned to look at Halbarad. He felt as if he’d barely kept up with the conversation. “I’m sorry,” he addressed the farmer, “we’ve an appointment to keep.”

Maglor stared. “Do you think that I have forgotten? We can spare a week here.” He looked back to the horse who was nosing at his neck. “We stay.”

The farmer “We’d be right grateful to you both.”

Halbarad sighed. “Very well. One week.”

The farmer, who introduced himself as Hamon, lived on the outskirts of Archet. “Tis the only stroke of luck of the whole debacle, excepting yourselves, I mean,” he said as they pulled the wagon onto the track to his farm. He and Halbarad towed the wagon by its traces while Maglor followed behind, leading Daffodil slowly, his hood again pulled up to shade his face.

They were greeted by Hamon’s family who watched them with great curiosity, but politely refrained from personal questions, except for the children. Halbarad tried to answer their questions, but there were a great many of them.

“Where do ye come from?” 

“From the north.”

“Can I see your sword?” 

“No.”

“Are you a brigand? Me ma says there’re brigands on the roads.”

“There are, you should be careful, but no, we’re not highwaymen.”

“What’s wrong with his face? Can’t he talk?”

Halbarad glanced over at Maglor who stood very still as if afraid that he’d draw the attention of the children if he moved a muscle. “He’s shy,” said Halbarad.

“I’m gonna call him Blackbird. He looks like a big crow,” said a little girl who was chewing on her braid.

“I suppose he does, at that,” said Halbarad who had oft thought the same.

“What’s your name?” She asked, grabbing Halbarad’s hand with fingers that had recently been in her mouth.

He gently extricated his hand, hoping very much that a wash was in his future. “You can call me Hal.”

A sturdy woman who could only have been Hamon’s wife rescued them, sending the children scattering. “I’m so sorry. They’re little imps, they are. Here, I’ll have them draw some water so ye can wash up. Give me your soiled things. We’ll get them washed for you. Have ye spares? I’ve some old things that will do well enow.”

They were swept away by her efficient hospitality and soon enough, Halbarad and Maglor found themselves directed toward a lean-to stocked with several buckets of cold well water and a sliver of soap. There they took it in turn to wash themselves and change into the worn tunics that the lady of the house had found for them. Halbarad had won the first turn and was enjoying a mug of Hamon’s home-brewed ale when Maglor joined them. His borrowed tunic was a sight too large for him and he looked strangely unguarded without his hood to hide behind. 

“We don’t get many of your folk in these parts,” Hamon commented, “or, leastways, the ones as pass through here keep to themselves.”

Maglor accepted the mug of beer that was passed to him. Halbarad noticed that he had stripped off the gloves that he habitually wore. It was only a glimpse, but he could see the shiny, knotted flesh scarring his palms before Maglor caught him watching and pulled the sleeves over his hands.

“Never fear. I’ll not ask ye any questions ye might not wish to answer. Blackbird’s as good a name for you as any ye were born to.”

“I - I am grateful.”

In the morning, Hamon showed them to the forge. It was cold and dusty, with the reek of old smoke heavy in the air, but he nodded in satisfaction. “Did Wymond have an apprentice?”

“Aye, young Matty, our trickster. She’ll no’ be ready to take over the place. She’s a bit flighty, still.”

Maglor lifted an eyebrow, “For the moment all I need is someone who can swing a hammer. But maybe she’ll make a smith sooner than you think.”

Hamon went to find ‘Young Matty’ while Maglor started the fire.

It seemed to take no time at all before it was glowing hot and angry. Maglor had braided his hair out of reach of the flames and stripped to his borrowed trousers and a strip of cloth that he wore bound about his chest. Over all he donned a leather apron that still hung near the forge.

Hamon returned with a girl in tow. He looked at the fire in wonder. “Ye’re as good as a Dwarf, if ye don’t mind me saying.”

Halbarad nodded. “Would you believe that he’s had me making the camp fires all this time?”

“You had greater need for practice,” said Maglor. He waved the apprentice over. “Matty?”

“Aye, sir.” The lass had hung back behind Hamon. She had a round, friendly face and a great cloud of dark curls.

“I gather there is work to be done. If you help me here, I’ll teach you some tricks worth knowing.”

Matty grinned wide at that, showing a gap between her front teeth. “Oh, aye. I warrant I’ve some tricks to teach you, too.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A detour on the way to Rivendell.
> 
> Or: I guess I'm about as eager to get there as Maglor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to everyone who has taken a chance on this story.
> 
> I continue to be unhealthily dependent on external validation. Comments are immensely appreciated.

While Hamon went to retrieve Daffodil, Halbarad found himself a place in a corner from which he could watch and lit a pipe. If pressed, Halbarad would have said that he was not precisely worried, though it did not escape his notice that Maglor could be a frightening figure, especially stripped of the garments that usually swathed his form. Like this, it was easier to see the fighter, the killer. His arms were wiry with muscle and thick with scars. Despite these months of companionship, Halbarad felt as if he was seeing Maglor for the first time, from the scar that started at one eyebrow then skipped his cheek to cut across his lips to the deceptive softness in his grip as he handled the tools. 

He had not much fear that the girl would come to any real harm, but he also could not say that he trusted Maglor to keep civil. He needn’t have worried. Though the farmer had called the girl flighty, she was quick-witted and diligent. For all that Maglor seemed bewildered by her high spirits, he was never cruel, though Halbarad could not, perhaps, have called him ‘kind.’ Maglor had spent far too much time in his own company to ever be anything other than abrupt. In what was, by far, the most surprising discovery since Halbarad had met the elf, he seemed pleased with his new assistant. 

For her part, Matty seemed to think that the elf was quite a comical fellow. His dour manner did not discourage her, indeed, she seemed determined to provoke him as much as she could without impacting their work. While they made nails and jigs, she tried to teach him bawdy songs. He stonily ignored this, but Halbarad thought he saw the shadow of a smile cross those thin scarred lips when Matty was otherwise engaged. 

It took no time at all for word to spread in the village that there was a blacksmith at work, and the inhabitants of the surrounding area started to appear bearing an assortment of tools and household goods that had been neglected since the old smith’s illness, along with several workhorses who, like Daffodil, needed shoeing. A few brought a copper penny, or a bag of wheat, or a jug of wine. Maglor passed a couple of pennies over to Halbarad, the rest he gave to Matty, except for the wine, which he kept. Many had nothing and none were turned away.

After the first day, Halbarad no longer felt that he needed to keep an eye on the proceedings at the forge. He no longer had any fear that Maglor would decide to disappear and leave Halbarad to make an unfortunate explanation. Halbarad spent his days walking about the village, gathering what news he could, but sometimes he came back to the forge, to watch them work. At night, they slept in Hamon’s barn, cows chewing sleepily above them. Or, rather, Halbarad did. After the first day, Maglor stayed at the smithy nights, long after Matty had gone home to her family. He did not speak of what he was making and Halbarad had not the courage to ask.

He had asked a question on the first day, almost without thinking. “I suppose your father taught you smithing?”A sudden sharp clatter rattled his ears and made him jump. Matty dropped her hammer and took a step back.

Halbarad already knew that he had erred, but if he had any doubt, it was removed by the look on Maglor’s face. “Speak not to me of my father.” He threw his hammer onto the anvil and stalked toward the door. “I have never learned anything from my father but cruelty.”

The smithy felt very silent after that. Matty glanced at Halbarad then very deliberately went back to her work.

Ere long, Maglor returned, and they spoke no more of it.

In this way, the week passed. The last night of their stay happened to coincide with a festival. They called it the Day of the Waters and everywhere that Halbarad went, the villagers of Archet were busily cleaning, laundering their clothes, washing the walls and even grooming the old draft horses (all now freshly shod). Boughs of fragrant conifers were hung in the windows and doorways were decorated with ribbons. In the evening, the entire village, all freshly bathed and dressed in their finest, gathered in the center of town for songs and dances.

It was a hungry time of year, so there was little feasting, only a stew of venison and turnip, but the wine flowed freely and the young folk were rowdy. Matty ran up to him and pushed a cup of the local over-sweet wine into his hands. She wore a wreath of cedar in her hair and her dark eyes sparkled.

“Is your friend not coming?” She asked, as he drank.

“My friend?” He almost laughed at that. “I much doubt it. I think you know where he can be found.”

She looked heavenward. “Oh course, let’s go fetch him. It will make him _miserable_.” She tugged him in the direction of the smithy. The door was darkened when they reached it. “Master Blackbird!” she called.

The fire had gone out and Halbarad’s first thought was that he’d been wrong, wrong about everything. Maglor was not here. He was probably gone from this place, back to his wandering. It was strange that Halbarad’s first thought was not anger or even relief. These, he would have expected. No, instead he only felt a peculiar sadness.

While he had stayed, frozen at the door, Maddy had fairly skipped inside. She clucked her tongue, “Ye’ll ruin your eyes, working in the dark, Did your ma-” she stopped herself. “Never mind. What are ye making?” 

Halbarad did not hear a response.

“Oh, aye, keep your secrets if you must. Come out _now_ , though. Ye’ll miss the jugglers.”

“I’ve work to finish,” Maglor protested, even as he let himself be pulled from the table where he’d sat, hidden in the corner, at work on something that he quickly hid away in his sleeve.

“There is a festival,” Halbarad said unnecessarily. “There is a festival, and we must leave tomorrow.”

Maglor glanced at him then, a piercing look that seemed to see far too much. “Yes. I suppose it is time.” He noticed Matty watching him then, and put a hand, gloved again, on her shoulder.

“I’ll miss ye,” she said. “Ye’re a right satisfactory smith.”

“Ye’re a right satisfactory apprentice,” he said, drily. “Indeed, You’ll make a finer smith than I ever did. You know all that you need to take over the place already. Don’t let the folk here tell you otherwise.”

“Tis true,” Halbarad added. “Folk will talk about the Smith Woman of Archet for hundreds of miles.”

Matty sniffed and threw her arms around them both.

It took most of a jug of wine in addition to physical force, one tugging each of his arms, to convince Maglor. It was full dark, and the stars shone as the crowd enfolded them. Some of the townsfolk had brought out instruments and were standing atop a table playing a tune that Halbarad had never heard. Matty knew it, though, and was soon singing at the top of her lungs along with the rest of the villagers. 

Maglor seemed to feel that he had humored them sufficiently. He shrugged them both off and settled in a seat where the firelight did not reach. He pulled up his hood, took a long draught of his wine, and glared balefully at Halbarad, who had likely had too much drink already, for he found the sight dreadfully funny. He let himself be pulled back into the dance, looking back at the elf every so often. Each time, he found himself watched and so, he performed. He leapt and spun, twirling ungracefully through the men and women of Archet. They laughed at his clumsiness as they took his hands and when the song ended, a pretty lass grabbed him and kissed him hard on the cheek. He laughed and patted her waist and, still keenly aware of the gaze upon him, shook his head. She danced away with a shrug and a smile. In the quiet between tunes, Halbarad had an idea. It was the work of a moment to dash unsteadily back to the smithy and to find the harp.

He carried it carefully back to the festival and approached Maglor from behind. “Making friends?”

“Only with the wine,” replied Maglor, filling another cup. “I do not belong here.” 

“That is why I have brought you a friend.”

Maglor turned and stared at Halbarad, then glanced to the musicians. “They have no need of me.”

Halbarad felt foolish. “Perhaps not. I only thought that you might want to.”

Maglor stared, as if Halbarad was a puzzle that he could not solve. Something in him seemed to soften. “My thanks, Dunadan,” he said, very softly, before he drained his cup and took up the harp. “Oh, Halbarad? Have you ever been told that you dance like a drunken bull?” 

Halbarad laughed at that. 

The fiddler noticed Maglor first and waved for him to take up a spot next to him. Halbarad could see that he looked uncertain, perhaps even bashful as after a brief conversation, they began to play. Maglor followed the tune, as if it were one he’d known all his life, though it was hardly like the elven lays that Halbarad had heard him play before. This was closer, quicker, and it sounded like spring. The villagers whirled into another great dance, and Halbarad again joined in. The music went on until the full moon shone high above them and a suspicious number of the young folk had disappeared in pairs to do the sorts of things that young folk do.. 

The Ranger and the Elf were both clumsy with drink and weariness as they stumbled down the track to Hamon’s farm. 

“Stop. Hold a moment.” Maglor caught at Halbarad’s sleeve. Earlier, one of the young folk had placed a wreath of juniper on his brow which he still wore. His dark eyes seemed very bright beneath it and he smelled of the woods and of the fire. “May I borrow your knife for a moment?’

Halbarad stumbled to a stop, patting at his belt, trying to find the worn old camp knife, the one with the split handle and broken tip. “Have you lost your own?” He asked, wondering if had perhaps left it behind. It would be no great loss.

Maglor held something out to him. A knife. Halbarad pulled it out of the leather sheath and held it up to the moonlight. It was sharp as a whisper and the steel had been folded such that it made a pattern of waves along the blade.

“What is this?”

“Your knife.”

“No, this is not my knife. My knife is not like this.” He ran his thumb along the blade and hissed when it drew blood.

“It is your knife,” Maglor said. “I took it from you a week ago and saw that it was broken.”

“You stole my knife?” Halbarad wondered if it were only the drink that made this conversation flow so strangely.

“Yes.”

“But you have a knife.”

“I wanted yours.”

“And then you fixed it?”

“Yes.”

“I - thank you.”

“It is only a small thing.”

“One moment.” Halbarad pulled out his purse and retrieved one of the penny pieces. “Here.”

Maglor frowned. “It is a gift. Also, it is still your own knife.”

“No. It’s something my father used to say. An old superstition, I suppose. He said that one should only sell a knife, never give one as a gift, lest it cut the friendship.”

Maglor’s voice was very serious when he asked, “are we friends, then, Halbarad?”

Halbarad paused, feeling suddenly foolish and unsure of his answer. “I think we may be.”

Maglor held out his hand, then, and Halbarad dropped the penny into it. “I think that you may be a fool, then. But for myself, I am glad.”

When Halbarad woke, the barn was empty, save for Hamon’s animals. It was early and the little sun that shone through the entry was still dim and grey. His head ached and he took a moment to regret every decision that had led him to this place. Before he could truly bestir himself, a shadow stepped across the light.

Maglor stood, tall and serious again. “I have been to the forge, all will be well there.” 

Halbarad yawned at him. “How long have you been awake?” 

“Long enough to finish the things that needed doing. I am only awaiting you.” With that he left Halbarad to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

A foggy morning greeted him beyond the barn. He navigated toward the sound of voices and found Hamon and his family gathered around Maglor. He was cloaked again for travel, a scarf wrapped around his face against the fog. As he drew closer, Halbarad understood what had kept Maglor at the forge all night. The staff that he had born was a simple walking stick no longer, it now ended in a dark blade, nearly two hands in length, with a hook at the opposite side.

The children were as unimpressed by the glaive as they were undaunted by the elf’s manner, and were busily handing him small mementos, rocks, bits of string, and buttons. These last, he passed back to Hamon’s wife when the children weren’t looking. In return, she had given several skins of wine, some salt pork, and a few of the remaining apples.

It was with no small regret that they left the village of Archet and marched into the fog.

As the days progressed, they found that it had not hidden much. It was still too early to see much sign of spring beyond the mud that continued to plague them, though that would likely change ere the end of their journey. The weather had turned overcast again. 

As the days wore on and the foothills of the Misty Mountains began to lurk, like clouds near the horizon, Maglor sank again into silence. Halbarad had already learned a lesson about asking unwanted questions, but still, he worried at the change and, more, wondered what would come to pass when the Council was convened.

One night, just east of the Hoarwell, Maglor spoke as they sat beside the embers of the fire. March was fast fading and the woods beside the road were full of flowers. Snowdrops, hepatica, orchids all dotted the path. The gardens of Rivendell would soon be a riot of birds and blossoms.

“You called me cruel.”

It took Halbarad a breath to realize that Maglor was speaking to him, so accustomed had he become to the silence between them. “Yes,” he said at length. “I did. Proud, too, If I remember aright.”

Maglor nodded. He had taken the trinkets that had been given to them by the children of Archet and strung them on cords which he carried like charms at his belt. The smaller things he had tied into his braids. They tapped softly against each other when he moved. Halbarad could see the glint of the copper coin with which he had purchased his knife. “That is not why I -” he paused in that thought and changed direction. “I suppose you think I have behaved childishly.”

“Perhaps.”

“You are right.”

That was not a confession that Halbarad had expected to hear. He said nought, though.

“I am afraid, Dunadan, afraid like a child in a dark chamber.”

“Of what?”

“‘ _To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass_ ’” he recited, as if it were a statement that lived ever at the forefront of his mind. “That is the Doom that was laid on me. Or a part of it.’”

“You are afraid of being betrayed?”

It seemed that Maglor almost laughed at that, “Nay, Halbarad. It is not what others may do to me that I fear. It is the evil that I am fated to bring about.”

Halbarad pondered that for a moment. “Is that why you have concealed yourself for so long?”

“In part.”

“I think that you have used this Doom as a shield against your own liability and a proof that you can do no good. I think that you are afraid, but not of this doom. I think that you are afraid to face those you have wronged.”

“I fear no punishment.”

Halbarad shook his head. “I think that you are quite skilled enough at punishing yourself. I think that you are afraid of being forgiven.” The silence in tha camp had never felt heavier, but Halbarad went on. “I think that you are afraid of being forgiven, because you would again have to be a part of the world.”

Maglor said nothing, staring into the fire until long after Halbarad had gone to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon time:
> 
> We all know that Curufin was the smith in his generation, with Maglor being described as least like his father. My idea is that Feanor had very little use for Maglor and refused to teach him any of the craft, but that Maglor learned later on his own, mostly out of spite. By Noldorin standards, his skills are not impressive, but by Breeland standards, he's probably fucking amazing.
> 
> I also think that the force that guarded Maglor's Gap was likely cavalry, since it was an open place between hills, so I decided to give him an affinity for horses. 
> 
> He gets a glaive because why not?
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who has taken a chance on this story.
> 
> I continue to be unhealthily dependent on external validation. Comments are immensely appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for the long awaited Council, with bonus POV shift and a sudden doubling of the list of characters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for checking this out. Please don't be shy about commenting, I live for feedback. You don't even have to say anything about this story, you can just scream your head-canons at me, and I promise I will love it.

Halbarad and Maglor reached Rivendell at sunset on the last day of March. As they descended into the valley, Halbarad cast many a glance over his shoulder hoping for some insight into the elf’s mood. As always, Maglor was quiet, despite his growing collection of trinkets, his movements remained soundless. His gaze was distant. Indeed, he seemed hardly to be present, only a shadow that drifted behind him. If his steps lagged, Halbarad could hardly fault him. 

The Last Homely House twinkled like a jewel in the valley. To the eyes of Halbarad it was warm and welcoming after a fortnight in the Wild. He had no need to wonder whether Maglor shared his relief, for he seemed to quail, almost shrinking on himself as they drew closer. After a moment he noticed the scrutiny and with a flash of his eyes at Halbarad he drew himself upright, taller than Halbarad had ever realized. He cast back his hood, quirked his lips in something that maybe wasn’t quite a smile but was, at least, a mockery of one. With no more hesitation, he strode away, purposeful and haughty, the last scion of the proud yet accursed House of Feanor, and Halbarad was left behind, surprised once again.

They were watched as they descended into the valley and Halbarad wondered how far the news that Maglor yet lived had spread. Not all the eyes felt friendly, and Halbarad judged that Maglor was now known, at least among the folk of Imladris. The hospitality of Elrond’s house was not lessened, though, and Halbarad was quickly led to a pleasant chamber where he was brought clean water to bathe himself, and later food and drink. The Council would convene in the morning, he was told, and Halbarad son of Halbaron’s presence would not be necessary. Eventually, he fell asleep, restless in the soft bedding and missing the sounds of a harp.

Maglor arose early and spent the hour before dawn watching the stars fade slowly from the sky, Earendil last of all. When it no longer haunted his vision, he returned to the chambers he had been given and made himself ready. Clothes he had been given, far richer than any he had worn in several ages of the world. He pulled off his gloves and felt the cloth, cool and smooth as it flowed over the gnarled skin of his palms. He traced the embroidery at the collar of the outer tunic, a device of eight-pointed stars, with his fingertips and frowned. 

It seemed a sign that the Council wished to see a prince of the House of Feanor, not whatever broken thing Maglor had since become. He braided his hair and bound a cloth about his chest, then dressed himself in the clothes he had been given.

The Council had already assembled in the chamber when he arrived. Some he knew from youth, others he knew only from rumor. Elrond sat in a great chair at the head of the table and it was hard for Maglor to look at him. Beside him was an old man clad all in white. Maglor seated himself in the remaining chair, refusing to bend to the weight of eyes upon him..

It was Elrond who spoke first, “My old friends, I wish to welcome you to Imladris and I thank you for undertaking the long journey. I am in need of your counsel, for this is a matter in which my own mind is not clear.”

The wizard spoke, his voice deep and resonant. “Indeed, this is a matter that will challenge all of the Wise, for whose lives among us have not been touched by the actions of the House of Feanor?” His gaze sought out Maglor. “Indeed, who would have thought that, in this time of turmoil, we should find ourselves plagued by this one, this little singer, perhaps the least of that prideful House. Kanafinwe Makalaure! Have you anything to say on your own behalf?”

“You are Saruman the White, are you not?”

The wizard nodded. 

“You are called wise, I understand, a loremaster of great renown?”

“I am.”

“I think that there is little more for me to say, then. The history of my family is well known. If I’m not terribly mistaken, I think there is a famous song of the tale. More than one, perhaps.” He tapped his finger against his lips, as if thinking. “In fact, I’m quite certain of it.”

Across the table, another old man snorted, then coughed, as if clearing his throat, and Saruman’s gaze darkened. Maglor looked at him. This must have been another of the wizards, a bit shabbier, a bit greyer, but with bright eyes that seemed to Maglor somehow familiar. 

“We have met before, have we not?” he asked.

“Indeed,” replied the wizard, “although it was many a long age ago and far across the sea, in the gardens of Lorien. Neither of us are as once were.” He cast his gaze at the others around the table. “Indeed none of us are.”

Elrond spoke, “This is Gandalf the Grey, who is called Mithrandir among the elves.” He gestured around the table, “Radagast the Brown. For the others, I am sure that you need no introductions?”

“I do not.”

Silence reigned for a moment.

It was Cirdan who spoke next. “Your actions are well known, as you have said. The reasons, too, are known. For myself, and for my people, many of whom died at your hand, I would ask you to give a fuller account of yourself.”

Maglor bowed his head. “It is hard to do so. I would like to say that a madness was on us, and maybe that could be said of my brothers. Maybe they were driven mad with lust for the jewels, maybe they truly still believe them to be ours by right, I know not what was in their hearts. I think now, though, that I knew, that we all knew, that we went to do evil, and that the only reason for it, if reason it could be called, was naught but fear for myself, fear of the doom that I had already brought unto myself. Many, too many, died as we sought to flee a curse of our own making.”

“And for what?” Galadriel spoke and Maglor flinched beneath her ringing voice.

“For nothing. My life is forfeit for what I have done.”

Galadriel spoke again. “Indeed. It is, perhaps, unfortunate that we are not more like you.”

“Not least for myself,” agreed Maglor. 

“And so, what fate shall we decree for the only living son of Feanor?” asked Glorfindel. “It seems to me that our choices are simple: we may either send him across the sea, to face the justice of the Valar, or we may pretend that nothing has changed and permit him to go his own way, as he has until now.”

Radagast spoke. “We do not know if those who dwell in the west would accept him.”

“My ships will not bear him, in any case,” said Cirdan. He looked to Maglor. “It has been long, and any anger I felt for your house has faded. My people, though, do not feel as I do. A Feanorian would not be welcomed among the folk of the Havens, and I would not tempt any of them to evil deeds by his presence.”

“Could we constrain him somehow?” Saruman asked. “He has proven himself unworthy of trust, I think. We know not what he has done since the loss of the Silmarils. Do none of you think it strange that he has reappeared now, after our enemy has begun to stir? Where was he before? Could he not have been an ally to us in our struggles against Sauron?” He sat back, seemingly well pleased.

Elrond spoke then, “I, too, would know the answer to this. We have all heard many tales of the might of the Sons of Feanor, although it is notable that I have heard few from your own lips.” It was then that Maglor truly understood how broken the trust between them had become. “Are your weapons only for use against your own? Could you not have lent your strength to our cause?”  
“I was there.” Maglor said.

Saruman laughed. “The tellers of tales are oft liars. Listen not to his fancies.”

“I would hear what he has to say,” said Gandalf.

“And I,” said Glorfindel.

“I was at Ost-in-edhil when it fell. I saw the death of Celebrimbor, the last of my family. I saw him butchered and born before the hosts of the Enemy and I saw their joy when we wept. When Numenor fell and the world was broken, I stood on the shores and sang for the dead. I rode in the cavalry at Dagorlad and was there during the long siege.”

“Why did you not make yourself known?”

“What good would have come of it? Who would have believed that I did not seek power or the restoration of my House? My family has done little enough good in our time. I challenge you: was not the greatest thing the Sons of Feanor ever did for the world to die young? I did not wish it said that my greatest crime was that I did not have the wisdom to go with them.” He found that his voice shook, shaming him, and he quieted.

“And what brings you forth now?”

“It is as you have said. We sit on the eve of a great war. Maybe the last that our people will have a part in. I have no gift of foresight, like some of you. My gift, such as it is, is in looking back. But I have seen war enough that I know the scent of a coming battle. I noticed the Dunedain stirring in the North, and I sought them out.”

Mithrandir stirred at that. “Then your meeting with the Sons of Elrond was no accident?”

“My meeting with the Dunedain was no accident. I thought, foolishly, I see now, that I would not be recognized.”

Elrond spoke then, softly. “We have much to discuss. Leave us for a time. You may await us in the Hall of Fire. I will see that you are brought refreshment and anything else you may require.”

He found his way to the Hall easily enough and, as Elrond said, he was brought wine and fruit when he asked for them. A lute he found, left in the corner of the room and he took it up, thinking that he might play for a time, to calm himself, but a song would not come, and however he tuned the strings, the sound was discordant.

A small sound stirred him, and he found himself watched again.

“Ah, I’m sorry!” The Halfling dropped the sheath of papers he was holding and scrambled to gather them. “The Hall is usually empty, so I come here to write.” He held up the papers as proof.

“It is I who should beg your forgiveness,” said Maglor. “I am the intruder here.”

“No, no, I’m only a guest, myself.” He straightened to his full height, such as it was. “I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself. I’m Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo, son of Bungo, of the Shire.” He bowed a bit, and approached. “I don’t want to presume, but the rumors have spread even to me.”

Maglor stood and bowed in return. “My name is Kanafinwe Makalaure, but you will likely know me as Maglor, second son of Feanor.” He gestured for Bilbo to join him. “I have spent some time near the land of the Halflings, but you are the first whom I’ve met.”

Bilbo laughed, “I can tell, otherwise, you would know that we call ourselves Hobbits.”

“That name does suit you better.”

“Thank you!”

Maglor recalled their last conversation, such as it was. “Are you a poet, then, Mr. Baggins?” He gestured at the papers.

Bilbo’s round cheeks went even rosier than before. “Ah, well, I’ll feel a fool if I call myself that in front of you.”

“All poets are fools, Mr. Baggins.”

Bilbo seemed to think that was quite funny. “Well, then, yes, I suppose you could say I am.”

“May I?”

Bilbo smiled widely, but his face fell as he glanced at the first page. “Well, it would be an honor, certainly, but I’m not sure if it is really the best of ideas.”

“No?” 

“It’s just, you see, I’ve been, well, translating some of the old songs into the Common Tongue, you see, and, well -”

“Did I write this one?”

“No, or I don’t think so,” said Bilbo, “but you’re, well, in it.”

“Ah, I’ll not interfere, then.” He returned to his feeble attempt at music as Bilbo worked quietly beside him. 

They took their luncheon together as Bilbo told Maglor that tale of his journey with the Dwarves, seemingly pleased to have found so attentive an audience. Maglor, for his part, welcomed the distraction as the hours wore on.

Afternoon was drawing on when Maglor was summoned back to the council chamber.

“Well, I don’t know if ‘good luck’ is quite the right thing to say in this situation,” said Bilbo as Maglor stood to follow the messenger, “but I wish you well.”

The light in the chamber had changed with the passage of the hours, now slanting yellow through the westerly windows and striking the table around which the wise were seated.

Saruman seemed ill-pleased and Maglor ventured to hope that this indicated a favorable outcome.

“Maglor, child of Feanor. Would you hear the decision of the Council?”

He looked at his hands before him on the table. The sun filled his palms with light, warm on the scarred flesh. He nodded, unable to look away from the sight.

“The Council has heard your words and finds you to be guilty of the crimes of which you are accused, and you yourself have offered no defense. However, the Council has no appetite to spill your blood, and we do not at this time have the means to send you into the west. In time, the judgement of Cirdan may change. If it does, then to the uttermost West shall you go where you shall abide the judgement of the Valar.”

Galadriel spoke. “Our next thought was to send you into exile, to bar you from all the lands where dwell our kin. I was a proponent of this thought, but the Lord of Imladris is more merciful than I.”

“Lady,” said Maglor, “this plan would be just and I will abide by it.”

“Nay, Maglor,” said Elrond, “the Lady Galadriel says that I am merciful, but the truth is that I am perhaps less trusting. I fear for you to go so far afield, beyond the watch of our people. I fear that in isolation, you will become vulnerable to the wiles of the Enemy.”

“For my part, I do not fear this,” said Glorfindel, “I believe what you have said of your doings and think that the Enemy would find it hard to deceive you. From all that I have seen and heard, though, I think that you wish for an end to your solitude, little though you may wish to admit this. I think that this is why you have sought out the Dunedain and have agreed to come before us. Despite your words, I am not deceived into belief that your presence here is anything other than voluntary.”

“Which is when I proposed an idea,” said Gandalf. “If Maglor’s folk are unwilling to either have him among their people or to cast him out entirely, perhaps the path of wisdom lies somewhere between. These, then, are the terms we have agreed upon. You shall not enter uninvited into any settlement of the Elves, be it to the Havens of Cirdan, to the people of the Greenwood, to the folk of Lothlorien, or anywhere else they may have a settled dwelling, except for the valley of Rivendell. Here, Elrond has declared that you are to be welcomed. I have spoken with your friend, Halbarad of the Dunedain, and he tells me that you are welcome to travel with his people at any time that you wish it.”

“That is all? This sounds much like the existing conditions.”

“Almost,” agreed Gandalf with a smile that seemed too merry for the proceedings. “You shall not simply leave and disappear again. You may travel as you wish and do as you wish, but once a year, at midwinter, you must return here to Imladris and have speech with the Lord of the place.”

Maglor looked to Elrond, surprised.

“Additionally, once a year, at Midsummer, you shall be permitted entry to the city of the Galadhrim -”

“Blindfolded and under guard,” said Galadriel.

“Of course,” agreed Gandalf.

“Of course,” Maglor echoed.

“Where you shall make a visit to the Lady Galadriel and give to her an accounting of your actions.”

“Cousin,” said Galadriel, “I wish you to know that I am no more pleased about this than you may be. Please understand that it is not generosity that moves me to bring you near to my abode, but fear of the things that may be wrought in you if you are unwatched. I fear that Elrond’s judgment in this matter may be clouded by the love he once bore for you.”

“There is but one more thing,” said Saruman. “The Council, may have a task for you, from time to time. Since you are so eager to join the fight against Sauron, I expect that you will be eager to assist.”

Maglor inclined his head. “If I refuse any of these terms?”

Elrond sighed, “We have no power to force you, nor would we wish to do so. We only ask that you honor these conditions.”

Saruman spoke again, deliberately, watching Maglor as he did so. “An oath he might swear.”

A great sound rose in Maglor’s ears, like the roaring of the ocean or the weeping of the dead. He found that he could not move, even to draw breath.

“No,” said Elrond, “we will not ask that of him. I will not ask that of anyone.” 

Maglor remained still while the room emptied, neither speaking to, nor meeting the eyes of the Council. Soon enough, only he and Elrond were left.

“You have become wise,” he said.

“So they say,” Elrond replied. “What of you? What have you become, Makalaure?”

“I no longer know.”

Elrond nodded, and left him.

It was time for him to leave. The walls of the Last Homely House felt constricting, as if Elrond’s disappointment were their very mortar. His things he packed, few as they were. He left behind the silken tunics with their lovely but accursed decorations and donned his dark and roadworn garb. He closed the door softly behind himself and slipped down the hallway. There would be singing tonight. In honor of the guests, old songs would fill the halls of the house of Elrond, but Maglor fled from the sound, his breath gasping sharp in his lungs.

In the cool air of the valley he could breathe again, safe but ever-watched beneath the stars.

“What will you do now that you may go where you will?” It was the ranger, Halbarad, who sat upon the stairs as if he had awaited Maglor. He asked the question kindly, almost as if he knew what it was to feel hunted, to feel imprisoned within walls no matter how many doors there might be, to know oneself cursed no matter how many fair words of forgiveness are said. When he turned to Maglor, though, his eyes were sad, like grass in the fog.

“I do not know,” said Maglor.

“But you know that you cannot wait to leave, not even for the morning?” a breath of evening air stirred his ruddy hair, and if any smile were there to soften his words, his beard hid it. He looked away then.

Maglor’s hand moved, almost without thought, as if he would touch the man’s shoulder. He had noticed already, though, the way that his own eyes always found their way to the ranger. He had noticed, too, the way the man watched him in return. So instead he only closed his hand, his fist tight around his scar, and answered, “Yes. I must go.”

“Then I will delay you no longer.” He stood and faced Maglor. “Travel well, my friend.”

Maglor bowed his head. “You as well. Perhaps we will meet again.”

“May it be so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here are my actual notes about this;
> 
> Council: Here's the plan, we sending you to Aman  
> Cirdan: No fuckin' way, I hate this asshole.  
> Maglor: Hey, thanks man, that means a lot.  
> Cirdan: Go fuck yourself.  
> Galadriel: Can we get migraines? Is that even a thing? Fine, we cast you out, an exile among Exiles!  
> Maglor: Fuckin' sweet. that's what I was gonna do anyway.  
> Galadriel: Hang on...  
> Gandalf: I have an idea...  
> Galadriel: I'm gonna hate this, aren't I?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I dunno. Rangers walk around a lot, I guess? This keeps going off on tangents that I didn't quite plan.
> 
> That night, they camped in the downs, though Maglor would have had them walk through the night if Halbarad had allowed it. They built no fire that night and had no music. The heat had somehow grown as the day ended. The weather was overcast, and there were no stars to be seen. They slept fitfully. Halbarad was woken once in the night by a sound somewhere between a scream and a sob. 
> 
> “I wish a wind would come,” said Halbarad.
> 
> “Do you dream?” Maglor asked sharply.
> 
> “Yes,” he rolled onto his side, but it was too dark for him to see anything of his companion’s face when the moon was only a faint smear of wan grey behind the clouds. “What are you asking me?”
> 
> “Tell me what you dream of.”
> 
> “All sorts of things.” He thought for a moment. “Sometimes I dream of things that happened. I dream of my grandfather’s house, but in my dreams it is different and has many doors. I dream of my sister, who died when I was a child. I dream that she is not dead, but only sick, and I have forgotten her. I dream of a great city that I have never been to. I dream of my death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one reads fic on the weekends, but have a new chapter anyway.
> 
> As always, thank you for checking this out or sticking with it if you've been here all along. 
> 
> Comments are life. You don't even have to talk about this fic, just shout your head-canons at me.

It was several months before Halbarad again saw Maglor. It was late summer when the roads were dusty and the fields golden. He found him in the Eastemnet, among the horsemen of Rohan. They were mustering the herds and Halbarad stood for a time to watch as they flew across the plains, the flaxen hair of the Rohirrim shining in the sun, but for one with hair black as a raven’s wing. Dark, too, were his clothes and his horse had no saddle. He spent the night at their campfire and listened to the songs of the folk of Rohan. When his gaze met Maglor’s across the fading flames, neither looked away.

Halbarad never sought the elf out, nevertheless, he found him oft after that. They would meet on the Road, in strange hollows of the mountains where neither had a reason to be expected, by the shores of Lake Evendim. He would find Maglor working in the fields, his arms bare and his face shaded by a battered straw hat, or curing leather in stinking tanneries in the shadow of the Blue Mountains. Most memorably, was the time, almost a year after, that he found Maglor elbow deep in a cow, crooning softly to her through a difficult calving. The farmer stood to the side, leaning on the fence as he watched.

“Quite a thing, ain’t it?” He said when Halbarad drew near.

“I’d say so.”

“I tell ye, I’d not be near as calm in her situation.”

“Was it bad?”

“Oh, aye, she was breech, and the cord around the wee one’s neck.” The farmer shook his head. “She’s a good heifer, this is her first. We were ready to lose one or both of them, as she’d not let me close enough to help. Then, up walks this fellow and says he’d like to lend a hand. I didn’t reckon on where he’d put it, though!” He started to laugh, but it became a cough. “Friend o’ yours?” he asked when he got his breath again.

Halbarad nodded and would have said more, but the cow moaned, and Maglor whispered something to her. It sounded like the old tongue of the high elves, but spoken with a strange sort of lisp. With a great wet sound, the calf came, slithering onto the ground where it lay unmoving. Maglor took it in his arms and wiped at its snout. He blew into the calf’s nose and when it jerked and wriggled against him, he fell back onto his rump, laughing, heedless of the slime and blood. Halbarad startled at the sound, the hairs on his forearms rising. Maglor was aware of him then, and quieted his mirth. He laid the calf before its mother and stroked her forehead then came to speak to the farmer.

“Well, I’m right grateful to ye,” said the farmer, “but I reckon ye’ll understand if I’m not keen to shake yer hand just yet. There’s a pump over yonder. Come get me from the stables when you’re done. The wife’ll want to feed you afore ye move on.” The old man nodded at Halbarad and limped away.

The farm was just outside of the Shire, south of the South Farthing. It was a small place, little more than a muddy paddock and a small flock of ducks that waddled quickly away as Maglor made his way to the pump. He stripped off his tunic and gestured for Halbarad to assist. He worked the handle while Maglor wrung out the garment and used it to bathe his face and arms. He looked wilder than Halbarad had known any of the High Elves to look. He had acquired more trinkets: feathers, a songbird’s skull, a few shells, all of which he had woven into his braids or threaded onto cord and tied about his neck. Summer was fading, and his shoulders were nut-brown with the sun, but for the white scars that stood out all the more clearly.

“Dare I ask where you learned this skill?” Halbarad asked.

“There’s little enough skill, except maybe in the listening. We kept horses at the Gap, though, if that’s a better answer. It is not so different with them.” He wrung the water from his tunic and pulled it back over his head, still wet. “Which way do you go, Turamundo?”

Halbarad paused to parse the name, then laughed. “Great bull?”

“I’ve not forgotten your dancing.”

“Very well, Blackbird.” He reached out without thinking and touched the copper coin which he had given to Maglor, still braided into his hair. “Or should I call you Magpie?”

Maglor was very still for a long moment and Halbarad, abashed, let the coin fall. “I’m making for Weathertop. I expect to meet with Gandalf and Aragorn there. And you?”

“I’ve no destination in mind. If you bide a moment while I greet the goodwife, I may be able to pay my way. She promised me a loaf from her baking.” He smiled faintly, but did not meet Halbarad’s eyes.

Halbarad lingered near the line of tangled trees that marked the edge of the property and awaited Maglor. He thought perhaps he could smoke a pipe to pass the time, but when he patted his pockets, then searched his pack, he could not find it.

In any case, it was not long before Maglor joined him. He carried a loaf of bread and a sack of apples which he had made into a bindle tied to the hook of the black spear. He shaded his face with the same tatty straw hat that Halbarad had seen him with before, now decorated with feathers and bits of ribbon. 

They did not return to the road, instead planning to strike straight east to cross the Baranduin at Sarn Ford, then to cut north through the Downs. The Rangers kept a watch at the Ford so they would gain news in addition to shortening their road. He did not think to warn Maglor.

Evening was already falling as they approached the Ford, the sunlight golden and dusty with late summer’s heat and though the river was low, the far bank was a churn of mud as if someone had recently crossed with a wagon and a team of horses. In front of him, Maglor froze, staring into the trees, and Halbarad could see the change in his bearing as he readied himself for an attack.

“Peace,” Halbarad whispered. “They are of my people.”

Maglor nodded but did not relax in his readiness. Halbarad watched as two shadows peeled themselves from the trees and approached. “Well met, Halbarad!” cried one, a man with grey in his beard and a twinkle in his eye, followed closely by a tall woman a few years Halbarad’s junior.

“Almiron! It is good to see you again,” they clasped hands and he turned to the other, “and you, Aglaril, how fare you?”

“Well enough,” she said, unstringing her bow, “The greatest risk this year has been an early death from boredom.”

“That is good to hear.”

“Oh, aye,” agreed Almiron. “You young folk are too eager. Give me a quiet posting any day.”

Maglor spoke, “Someone came through before us.”

Aglaril looked at him, but spoke to Halbarad. “That was unusual. They looked like merchants, Big Folk, as they’d say in these parts.”

“The boxes looked like pipeweed to me,” said Almiron. “I think I saw the Hornblower mark.”

It would not have been so strange along the East-West road, but it was rare to see any trade leaving the Shire to the south. Halbarad would be certain to mention it to Gandalf next he saw him.

“Come,” said Aglaril, “We’ve a camp set up nearby.” She glanced again at Maglor but led them along the riverbank. The camp was a sandy spot, ringed around by thick underbrush that would shield it from the road. Had it not been for the pleasant voice of the river, it would have been a bleak and cheerless place.

“What news of you, Halbarad?” asked Almiron quietly as they set down their things. “We had heard that you had picked up a stray last year, but I thought not that he’d still be trailing you so long after.” The old Ranger looked over Halbarad’s shoulder and gave a sharp nod.

Halbarad looked back to see Maglor staring at Almiron, his face unreadable. He leaned his spear against a tree and stalked to the water’s edge. Almiron grinned at Halbarad’s face, but quickly sobered. “Can he be trusted?”

“I believe so, but you must make your own judgment.” He went to join Maglor.

“Then was a time no one would have spoken thus of me.” Maglor remarked, as a breeze from the river stirred the hot air. 

“He meant no offense.” 

“You misunderstand. It is a relief to me to find that Men, even you descendants of Numenor, have almost forgotten us.” He looked at Halbarad, then, and grinned. It was a startling look on his thin face, wide and showing all of his teeth. “Make no mistake, I will kill him if he speaks so to me again.” Still smiling, he went back to help the rangers build a fire.

They shared a dinner of fish, fresh from the river, accompanied by Maglor’s bread and some of the apples, then settled themselves to talk, the Rangers pleased of the chance to share news. Maglor took a seat next to Halbarad where he listened, playing softly, as was his habit in the evenings.

Before long, they had shared all the news there was of the North and the borders of the small lands they guarded.. “What of you?” Aglaril asked, turning to Maglor. “Surely you have travelled somewhere more exciting than this.”

“I have, although much of it does not warrant telling.”

“Were you not in Lorien?” Halbarad asked.

“Indeed, I came here as soon as I was released by the Lady of the Galadhrim.”

“Released?” asked Aglaril, “You make it sound as if you are her captive.”

“Every year, he travels to Lothlorien to visit with the Lady,” Halbarad explained.

Maglor snorted. “It sounds far more congenial in your telling.” 

“How is it, then?” asked Almiron.

“The Lady Galadriel is my cousin. Let us say only that there will never be great love between the two of us. I visit her as a condition of my freedom, and she accepts me because she thinks that Elrond trusts me overmuch.”

“Does he?”

“Perhaps.” He plucked a final chord, then set the harp aside, letting the melody hang unresolved. “When I reach the borders of Lothlorien, I am bound and blindfolded by the people of the Wood, and I am led before her. When she is satisfied, I am again led beyond the borders. I still have not seen a mallorn.” 

Halbarad thought he sounded almost mournful at this but his compassion was stayed somewhat when Maglor pulled a pipe from his pocket, filled it, lit it, and began to smoke.

“That’s my pipe.” For it was. It was not his old spare pipe, which he had given to the elf nigh on a year before. It was _his pipe_ , the one that he had sought since leaving the farm. 

“It is,” said Maglor, exhaling a perfect smoke ring.

Halbarad had never thought that he would find a feeling that he could share in common with the Lady Galadriel, but he thought now that he may have been mistaken.

In the morning, Halbarad bade farewell to his kinfolk and followed Maglor across the river. They followed the road, at first, wishing to see which way the wagon had travelled. The road was hard and dry beneath their feet and even the heavy wagon left little clear mark. Still, though, it was simple enough to see that it had continued south along the Greenway. They paused near the crossroad to rest and, there, after a long and surreal argument in which Maglor somehow invoked both the fall of Gondolin and a trickster myth from Harad in his own defense, and Halbarad delivered no few insincere threats, he reclaimed his pipe. Well pleased, he settled down to smoke as Maglor found himself a perch on a rock.

“Did you truly come here immediately from Lorien?” Halbarad asked.

“I did,” said Maglor, lighting his own borrowed pipe.

“Why?”

Maglor shrugged, straightening the horrible hat and blowing a smoke ring. “I thought perhaps that I would find you near.”

Halbarad had been surprised many times since he had met Maglor, but never more than he was at this moment.

“I know that I am not a pleasant companion, Halbarad,” Maglor said, “I’ll trouble you no more, if you wish me gone.”

Halbarad knew not what to say to this, so he moved from his place and came to sit beside Maglor. He held out one of his hands open, palm up, but made no other move, recalling how Maglor had seemed to draw back from his touch before. “I do not lie, Blackbird. I spoke truly when I called you my friend.” They sat close enough now that he could hear Maglor’s sharp breath. Halbarad was beginning to repent of his forwardness when Maglor reached out and grasped his hand, squeezing tightly. 

There was no barrow on the south downs, but it was still an empty and cheerless place to traverse. The summer had been dry and the grass was brown and sharp beneath their boots. They saw no animals other than an eagle circling high above them. 

Maglor seemed troubled, stopping frequently to stare at the bird or sniffing at the air which hung hot and oppressive over the hills. “What do you see?” asked Halbarad.

“Nothing. I see nothing, I hear nothing. I do not like this place. There is nowhere to hide.” Despite the heat, he drew his cloak close about himself.

Halbarad, too, was uneasy, so he kept pace as Maglor hurried over the next hill, although the hunted look in his companion’s face had a greater part in his concern than did something which they could neither see nor hear.

That night, they camped in the downs, though Maglor would have had them walk through the night if Halbarad had allowed it. They built no fire that night and had no music. The heat had somehow grown as the day ended. The weather was overcast, and there were no stars to be seen. They slept fitfully. Halbarad was woken once in the night by a sound somewhere between a scream and a sob. 

“I wish a wind would come,” said Halbarad.

“Do you dream?” Maglor asked sharply.

“Yes,” he rolled onto his side, but it was too dark for him to see anything of his companion’s face when the moon was only a faint smear of wan grey behind the clouds. “What are you asking me?”

“Tell me what you dream of.”

“All sorts of things.” He thought for a moment. “Sometimes I dream of things that happened. I dream of my grandfather’s house, but in my dreams it is different and has many doors. I dream of my sister, who died when I was a child. I dream that she is not dead, but only sick, and I have forgotten her. I dream of a great city that I have never been to. I dream of my death.”

Maglor stirred. “Are you foresighted?”

“I do not know. I shall only find out when it is too late.” He hoped that Halbarad would ask no more about that. “I also sometimes dream that I am in the house of Elrond without my clothes.”

Maglor chuckled but the sound was flat and dead.

“What do you dream of?”

“I? I dream of death. But never my own. I dream of those I love dying at my hand. Sometimes it is hard to remember that that is not how it happened.”

“Oh.”

“It matters not. I have killed brothers, sisters, sons… What difference does it make if they were not my own?” He sighed. “I see them every night in my dreams and they all look at me with my brother’s eyes.” He lay back down and turned his face from Halbarad. “Sometimes they walk beside me when I wake.”

“I know not what to say.”

A wind stirred in the grass. Halbarad hoped that it betokened a change in the weather. Maglor rolled to his feet and took up his spear. “Ready your sword, Turamundo.”

Halbarad obeyed and stood, back-to-back with the elf, his eyes seeking in the darkness for things that he could not see. He could smell them, though, a scent of rot and a heavy resinous sweetness that lingered foul in his nose.

Halbarad had no name for the things that stared at them from the darkness. They were creatures of the dark and nameless places, things that fled from the stars and hungered for life but fed on death. From the Barrow Downs they must have come, hoping to find two unwary travellers and an easy meal.

Tall but stooped they were, vague shadows made of grasping hands and hungry mouths that seemed to dissolve when he struck at them but their hands grasped and tore at his hair and held to his clothes like iron. He felt himself being dragged away, into darkness somehow deeper than the night, but still he fought.

Maglor gave a cry that was almost like a song and the wind stirred again, rolling away the clouds. And with it, the shadows that held fast to him were gone, leaving only a smell of smoke and the taste of metal in his throat. The moon shone brightly down on them and Halbarad could see Maglor smiling at him, the light of the stars reflected in his eyes.

“Say, Halbarad, that you hope they never leave me.”

They slept the rest of the night in peace and woke to find no sign of the creatures but a burnt patch in the grass.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flings chapter down, covers face and runs like hell. 
> 
> “Tell me of your family,” Maglor said one night to Halbarad. They had reached the old watchtower of Amon Sul earlier that day, but seeing no sign of those they intended to meet with, they had made camp in a sheltered place beneath the hill. Halbarad had trapped a rabbit which he was dressing for their meal, while Maglor built the fire. He paused at Maglor’s demand, uncertainty plain on his face. 
> 
> “My family?” he asked, as if unsure that he had heard Maglor properly, as if surprised to be asked. “Why?”
> 
> “Because I wish to know.” 
> 
> Halbarad frowned, thoughtful, as ever. Maglor liked to see him this way, his broad and crooked nose baked red by the sun, his brow furrowed, but Maglor knew that he would soon smile, for he did so often. He was proven right, as Halbarad did smile then, behind his ruddy beard, and he shook his head. “There is little enough to tell. I do not come from a line of kings, like some I could mention.” The teasing tone in his voice was a new thing and Maglor found that it pleased him.
> 
> Maglor inclined his head. “If you had, then there would be no need to ask, for I would already know the tales. Indulge me, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to time this chapter for Maglor day of @feanorianweek, on the theme of 'Redemption" which is kind of our whole dealio.
> 
> This chapter went all soft on me, but don't get too comfy with that because things are gonna get rough before they get better. Part of that is a lie (it's the getting better part).
> 
> Many thanks for all of the incredibly kind comments this story has received. I live for your comments, please yell at me there or on Tumblr, where I am also posting art of everyone's favorite disaster fam: http://rowan-henry.tumblr.com
> 
> As always, no need to even talk to me about this or any of my work, you can just scream your head canons at me and I will be absolutely thrilled.

“Tell me of your family,” Maglor said one night to Halbarad. They had reached the old watchtower of Amon Sul earlier that day, but seeing no sign of those they intended to meet with, they had made camp in a sheltered place beneath the hill. Halbarad had trapped a rabbit which he was dressing for their meal, while Maglor built the fire. He paused at Maglor’s demand, uncertainty plain on his face.

“My family?” he asked, as if unsure that he had heard Maglor properly, as if surprised to be asked. “Why?”

“Because I wish to know.”

Halbarad frowned, thoughtful, as ever. Maglor liked to see him this way, his broad and crooked nose baked red by the sun, his brow furrowed, but Maglor knew that he would soon smile, for he did so often. He was proven right, as Halbarad did smile then, behind his ruddy beard, and he shook his head. “There is little enough to tell. I do not come from a line of kings, like some I could mention.” The teasing tone in his voice was a new thing and Maglor found that it pleased him.

Maglor inclined his head. “If you had, then there would be no need to ask, for I would already know the tales. Indulge me, please.”

“You’re polite this evening,” Halbarad chuckled.

Maglor sniffed at that. Halbarad perhaps did not need to know how much more polite he had become than he once was. He blew onto the kindling, watching the memories dance in the sparks.

“My father taught me this,” Halbarad gestured at the rabbit, “trapping, woodcraft, much of what I know,” he said, cleaning his knife on a handful of grass.

“What was he like?”

Halbarad was pensive, his voice quiet. “He was kind. We lost my mother when I was still young. There was a fever, and she died along with my sister who was younger than I and never strong. I remember her, though, the way she held me on her lap and sang to me, stories to help me sleep, to soothe me when I cried. I still remember how my father wept, and how he held me close after that. The things he taught me were hard, for I think he knew what our life would be, but he never was.” Now that he had begun to speak, he seemed to find it easier to go on, and he told many stories of his youth and of the things that his father taught him, and he laughed at the things they did together, and it filled Maglor with a strange sense of loss, for a man he had never known, but also for himself, who could not imagine what having such a father would have been like. He sounded distant when he finally finished. “I lost him, oh, it must be ten years ago, now.”

“I am sorry,” Maglor said, though he could not truly understand. He had loved his father as well as he could, but to his shame, the death of Feanor had been a relief to him. As for his mother, she lived still, safe beyond the sea, where she in her wisdom had remained.

He looked up and smiled, sharply, and Maglor knew that he was not the only one who wore a mask to hide his grief. “In truth, I lost him long before that. In his last years he was not well. There were many times that he did not know me, and he called me by his brother’s name. I miss him, but it is easier, now, to remember him as he was before his illness.” He placed the butchered rabbit into the pot that Maglor had prepared, and placed it on the fire. Maglor watched as he cleaned his hands, then shifted so that Halbarad could sit beside him. “Now, what of you? I know nothing of your kin, but what the tales tell. I do not forget a lesson, so I’ll not ask about your father, but would you tell me about your brothers?”

“You must choose one, or I shall speak until morning.”

“I think I will learn more by your choice.”

And so Maglor spoke of his elder brother, of Maedhros the Tall, and the way that he was as sharp and joyful as a blade and the way he could quell the fiercest of arguments and turn enemies into allies. He spoke of his bravery and of his foolishness. He did not, he would not, hide from the evils they had done, not even to spare his brother’s memory but neither could he hide the love that he had borne for his brother. There were things that he could not bring himself to speak of, but he wondered if Halbarad saw them anyway. It was hard to tell the story without his father in it, and trying to talk around him made him seem even larger. “I have spoken too long,” he finally said. “Let us eat.”

Halbarad was merciful and said no more.

The next day Aragorn arrived, and with him was Gandalf whom the Elves named Mithrandir. Halbarad had gone to the top of the hill to keep watch on the road, while Maglor stayed near the camp in case they approached from the other way. A flock of starlings lifted from one of the nearby fields and Maglor paused in his mending, puffing at the pipe that he had held between his teeth as he worked, and watched the shapes they made in the air. Fall would come soon.

Maglor did not need to see him to know Halbarad’s step on the path behind him. “They’ll be here shortly,” he said, and passed the patched cloak to Halbarad.

“Did you see them? Ah, the birds, of course.” He took the cloak and held it up. “My thanks. This is much neater than I’d have done.”

“To my father’s great disappointment, I was never a weaver. This I can do, though.”

Halbarad gave him a sharp look, but Maglor said no more.

“Young Halbarad! I see you’ve taught our friend to smoke!”

Halbarad slung his cloak over his shoulder and went to embrace the old wizard. “Gandalf! It has been long! What business draws you here?”

“The same as always. I go hither and thither, poking my nose into things. You know how it is.” He looked closely then at Maglor who had come to stand behind Halbarad. “Well met again, son of Feanor. Our last meeting was not how I had hoped to be reunited with an old friend”

Maglor nodded, “Mithrandir.” The name suited this form that he now wore, for he appeared as a man, short in stature, silver of hair and beard, but still hale, with great bristly eyebrows and a long nose. His eyes were the same, though dimmed somewhat.

Aragorn regarded the two, then stirred himself. “I see we have no need for introductions. Let us then sit, for we have much to discuss.” He sat, and pulled his own pipe from his breast pocket. “Have you saved any weed for us, Maglor?”

They settled themselves and Maglor tossed the little pouch of pipeweed over to Aragorn.

“I am glad to see that you are again travelling together,” Aragorn continued. “I think that my kinsman missed your company.”

Halbarad threw a tuft of grass at Aragorn. “He lies,” he said, but he leaned his shoulder against Maglor’s knee as if to reassure him.

Aragorn laughed. “As I said. I have spoken to Elrond of this, and he agrees, as does Mithrandir. We are willing to include you in our concerns, but there is something I would know first.”

Maglor waited.

“Gandalf tells me that our meeting in Bree was no accident. Is this true?”

Halbarad glanced over his shoulder. It seemed to Maglor as if he, too, wanted an answer to this question.

“It is.”

“Why?” asked Halbarad.

“Sometimes it is hard to know my own mind. I found myself in the north, and it seemed to me that there were foul things stirring, but I saw that there were those who contested them in whatever small way they could. Bright hosts and great armies have never availed against our enemy. If Beren could triumph where the hosts of the Noldor failed, then perhaps I should throw in my own lot with his descendants.” He looked at Halbarad, seated before him, and amended his words. “That is what I would say were this a song. The truth is that I saw you and your kin, and you seemed to me honorable and merciful, and I thought perhaps that I could be among you, even if I could not be among my own people. Perhaps I could be taken in as, what did your friend say? A stray.”

“A stray?” Aragorn asked.

“It was Almiron,” Halbarad offered as if it explained much.

Perhaps it did, for Aragorn laughed. “Very well, then, we’ll take you in, son of Feanor. Indeed, I think it too late to do otherwise.”

Gandalf nodded, “Already he takes part in the watch in his own way, I think.”

“I do not know why we watch, though.”

“You have met my friend Bilbo, have you not?” asked Gandalf.

“I have indeed and I have heard his tale.”

“You also know of the wars of the Second Age, and of the rings of power,” said Gandalf. “I think that I need say no more for you to make a guess of why I’ve asked the Dunedain to watch the Shire. I cannot yet speak more plainly, for I still guess at many things.” He lowered his brows. “Much of what I know is mere suspicion, but if I suspect it, then so shall Sauron, and soon.”

Aragorn spoke. “Halbarad, Gandalf and I have heard rumor of the creature, this time in the south. I will journey south tomorrow to continue the hunt. The Shire, I entrust to you, for a time. I will send word as I may.”

“For my part, I go to visit an old friend in the Shire,” said Gandalf. “Listen well for any who seem to be seeking something here. Especially listen for the name of Baggins. You may leave messages for me here, or in the inn at Bree, or with the guard at Sarn Ford.” He smiled and his mustaches bristled. “Do not neglect the main road and those that travel on it! I know you Rangers are fond of your heaths and ditches, but if you can stand to sleep indoors on occasion, you will be more likely to hear of any who are asking questions.”

That night, as the others slept, Maglor kept watch. Turning his gaze to Gandalf, he perceived that the wizard was awake. He went to him and sat at his side. “Once, I called you beloved,” he said, “It has been long ages since then, and they lie not lightly on me. I know not what to call you now, for we are both much changed.”

Gandalf laughed. “Call me old friend, and you shall speak truly.” His bright eyes searched Maglor’s face. “You seem more at ease than last I saw you, although maybe that is no surprise.”

“Perhaps not,” Maglor’s mouth twisted.

“I speak not of the circumstances of our last meeting. I speak of your companion. Maybe you have found joy, and I would rejoice with you, but I must speak my fear.” He took Maglor’s hand in his. “You have seen the pain that comes from loving a mortal.”

Maglor let out a long breath and cast his gaze to Halbarad where he slept. “Is nothing hidden?”

“Not from one who has loved you. You stand close behind Halbarad, and he sits near to you. You are like two who share a secret.”

“We have not spoken of it.” Perhaps Maglor never would, for speaking of a thing oft made it more true.

“Even if you never name it, you will lose him, far too soon for your liking, even if he lives as long as the Numenoreans of old.” He rolled over. “I am often told that I am an interfering old busybody, though I would not have to interfere if only the rest of the world were wiser. I’ll only say this: waste not the time that you have.”

Maglor would have spoken, but what he might have said, protest of defense, he knew not.

Gandalf snorted and pulled down his hat. “Quiet, now. Let an old man sleep.”

Maglor stared long at the stars after that. Halbarad who had lain still, feigning sleep, was troubled and lay awake for a long time.

“Blackbird,” Halbarad said one evening, “Why do you not sing?” Aragorn had left them in the morning, travelling south to seek the creature Gollum again, and Gandalf too had gone east on his own errand. Autumn had set in, the air crisp and cool. There had been a fog that morning, but it had cleared unto a bright day that smelled pleasantly of wood smoke. On Gandalf’s advice, they had visited the Prancing Pony, and Maglor had earned more ale than he could drink, which should have been to Halbarad’s benefit, but they had pretended that they were not acquainted. Still, Maglor had slipped some of the coins he had earned to Halbarad, and he was now feeling reckless enough to ask the question.

“Would it please you? I have not sung for any but myself in many a long year. I was in hiding, you see.” He had winked at Halbarad as if revealing a great secret. They slept in the stables of the Prancing Pony. Though Butterbur had seemed pleased that the bard had reappeared, there were no rooms to be had. Nob had graciously offered them the use of the hayloft. Halbarad had been disappointed but Maglor seemed well pleased with their lodging, for he had flung the shutters open wide so that they might see the stars. Halbarad had often observed that Maglor seemed to prefer sleeping out of doors, but this was the first time he had seen how he had sighed with relief after leaving the crowded common room at the Pony.

“The tales say that you were a mighty singer.” Halbarad cast himself onto the sweet smelling hay and looked up at Maglor. Tall and mysterious he seemed, with his eyes bright as starlight. He no longer hid his face as he had done when they first met and sometimes it was so easy to see only Blackbird, his friend, and to forget that he was ancient and accursed. Sometimes, though, Halbarad looked and saw that the two were one and the same.

“Do they?”

“You know that they do. Second only to Daeron of Doriath, they say.”

Maglor scoffed. “I suppose fashions must change. I find his songs insipid. Far too many flowers.”

“I like flowers,” said Halbarad. “Would you sing now?” he pressed.

“Very well, Turamundo. I will indulge this fancy of yours.” Then Maglor sat beside him and sang to him many songs of the west, of the bright city of Tirion across the sea, of the lost realms of Beleriand, of the making of all that is and his voice was like the cry of the eagle and the last scream of a rabbit, like the howl of the wind, like a flame. Halbarad understood why this had been hidden, for there was power in songs like this.

Silence fell, and Halbarad knew not how long he had been entranced, but the stars were far from where they were when the singing began. He turned to Maglor and laid his hand upon the singer’s knee.

Maglor gazed upon him and asked, “What would you have of me, Halbarad? All that I may give, I will grant to you.”

And Halbarad replied, “I would be thine.” Maglor reached out his hand to rest it atop Halbarad’s hand. Halbarad clasped the gloved hand and held it between his own. Slowly, he pulled the glove from Maglor’s fingers. Maglor closed his hands as if he would hide them, but then he spread his fingers wide and let Halbarad see. On each palm was revealed the mark left by the jewels, a slick scarring of the skin, rippled and gnarled like water that had been stirred. He felt the scars and the roughness of a hand accustomed to harp and spear, the fine bones, and the bird’s pulse of the wrist. He laid his lips to the beat, then pressed the hands to his breast, before he found the courage to look into Maglor’s face. His eyes shone, and Halbarad thought that he must have made a terrible error.

“I think that I cannot be what you wish.”

“I ask you to be nothing but what you are.”

“I know not what that is,” Maglor said.

“I care not. It is not wise, for either of us, and we need swear no oaths, for already we are bound together, I think. I love thee, Blackbird, and will not be parted from thee willingly.”

“Nor I.” He smiled, then, though his eyes still were sad. “Very well. If fools we must be, then let us be fools together, for I love thee in return.”

**Author's Note:**

> Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
> 
> BY AMIRI BARAKA
> 
> Lately, I've become accustomed to the way  
> The ground opens up and envelopes me  
> Each time I go out to walk the dog.  
> Or the broad edged silly music the wind  
> Makes when I run for a bus...
> 
> Things have come to that.
> 
> And now, each night I count the stars,  
> And each night I get the same number.  
> And when they will not come to be counted,  
> I count the holes they leave.
> 
> Nobody sings anymore.
> 
> And then last night, I tiptoed up  
> To my daughter's room and heard her  
> Talking to someone, and when I opened  
> The door, there was no one there...  
> Only she on her knees, peeking into
> 
> Her own clasped hands.


End file.
